but the thick canopy of leaves blocked the remaining light, except for sporadic patches now and then that guided us. Leaves rustled in the underbrush as tiny feet scurried away fromus, and every once in a while, I could see glowing eyes deep within the shadows.
In spite of his silence, I was glad for Reid’s presence. He strode along the darkened path as though nothing or no one would dare touch him, and I hurried to follow in his footsteps.
At last we reached the cabin. It stood in a little clearing, basking in the last rays of light. The woods had been chopped away to make a tiny yard, but already vines were slinking across the raked lawn, and here and there saplings sprang up like soldiers spawned from the hydra’s teeth.
We reached the cabin’s porch and climbed up the steps, but I knew already my father wasn’t inside. The place had the lonely feel of abandonment, and as Reid tried the door, I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering with disappointment.
The door was unlocked, and we both went inside. Reid lit a candle that had been left behind, and the room flickered to life. The cabin was sparsely furnished with one leather sofa facing a stone fireplace, a daybed with a patchwork quilt sitting against one wall and an old battered desk shoved against another. There was no kitchen to speak of, and, I assumed, no plumbing. It was definitely a place one would come to “rough it” and it hardly fit the image I had of my father—suave, sophisticated and very urbane.
“What does he do up here?”
Reid shrugged as he inspected the cabin. “Communes with nature, meditates, writes his memoirs. Who knows? He rarely confides in me.”
There was a photo on the desk, and I picked it up, studying it in the dim, flickering light. Although I’d never seen her before, I knew immediately it was ClaudineSt. Pierre Greggory, the woman who had stolen my father from my mother.
I was amazed at the bitterness that welled up inside me. I thought I’d dealt with those feelings years ago, but seeing her beautiful, smiling face—even though she had died a few years earlier—still conjured those terrible feelings of resentment and betrayal deep within me.
If it hadn’t been for her, my life might have been so different. My mother might still be alive, my father—
“You never met my mother, did you?” Reid asked softly, breaking into my thoughts. He was staring at the picture in my hands. With a quick movement, I set it back down on the desk and turned away.
“I never had that pleasure.” If he noticed the sarcasm in my voice, he was big enough to ignore it. It made me ashamed of myself for being so small and petty, for hanging on to old memories that should have long since been abandoned.
“I met
your
mother once,” he said, and I looked at him in surprise.
“When?”
“It was shortly after Mother and Christopher married. We were still living in Chicago. She came to the house one day, and she and my mother talked for a long time. I never knew what about. She was very nice, very polite, but I remember thinking at the time that she seemed to be one of the saddest-looking people I’d ever seen. I felt very sorry for her.”
“She had good reason for being sad, wouldn’t you say? Her husband had just left her for another woman.”
“Do you still blame all that on my mother?” he asked. There was no resentment in his tone, no bitterness, just mild curiosity.
I turned away, not quite able to meet his gaze. I liftedmy shoulders. “What difference does it make now? They’re all dead—my mother, your mother and your father—all gone except my father and he’s…”
Reid hardly seemed to hear what I’d said. He was still staring at the picture of his mother. “It was a tragic time for both families.”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t see any point in dragging up the past.”
“Maybe there isn’t, unless, of course, the past still affects the present, and might affect the future, as
In spite of his silence, I was glad for Reid’s presence. He strode along the darkened path as though nothing or no one would dare touch him, and I hurried to follow in his footsteps.
At last we reached the cabin. It stood in a little clearing, basking in the last rays of light. The woods had been chopped away to make a tiny yard, but already vines were slinking across the raked lawn, and here and there saplings sprang up like soldiers spawned from the hydra’s teeth.
We reached the cabin’s porch and climbed up the steps, but I knew already my father wasn’t inside. The place had the lonely feel of abandonment, and as Reid tried the door, I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering with disappointment.
The door was unlocked, and we both went inside. Reid lit a candle that had been left behind, and the room flickered to life. The cabin was sparsely furnished with one leather sofa facing a stone fireplace, a daybed with a patchwork quilt sitting against one wall and an old battered desk shoved against another. There was no kitchen to speak of, and, I assumed, no plumbing. It was definitely a place one would come to “rough it” and it hardly fit the image I had of my father—suave, sophisticated and very urbane.
“What does he do up here?”
Reid shrugged as he inspected the cabin. “Communes with nature, meditates, writes his memoirs. Who knows? He rarely confides in me.”
There was a photo on the desk, and I picked it up, studying it in the dim, flickering light. Although I’d never seen her before, I knew immediately it was ClaudineSt. Pierre Greggory, the woman who had stolen my father from my mother.
I was amazed at the bitterness that welled up inside me. I thought I’d dealt with those feelings years ago, but seeing her beautiful, smiling face—even though she had died a few years earlier—still conjured those terrible feelings of resentment and betrayal deep within me.
If it hadn’t been for her, my life might have been so different. My mother might still be alive, my father—
“You never met my mother, did you?” Reid asked softly, breaking into my thoughts. He was staring at the picture in my hands. With a quick movement, I set it back down on the desk and turned away.
“I never had that pleasure.” If he noticed the sarcasm in my voice, he was big enough to ignore it. It made me ashamed of myself for being so small and petty, for hanging on to old memories that should have long since been abandoned.
“I met
your
mother once,” he said, and I looked at him in surprise.
“When?”
“It was shortly after Mother and Christopher married. We were still living in Chicago. She came to the house one day, and she and my mother talked for a long time. I never knew what about. She was very nice, very polite, but I remember thinking at the time that she seemed to be one of the saddest-looking people I’d ever seen. I felt very sorry for her.”
“She had good reason for being sad, wouldn’t you say? Her husband had just left her for another woman.”
“Do you still blame all that on my mother?” he asked. There was no resentment in his tone, no bitterness, just mild curiosity.
I turned away, not quite able to meet his gaze. I liftedmy shoulders. “What difference does it make now? They’re all dead—my mother, your mother and your father—all gone except my father and he’s…”
Reid hardly seemed to hear what I’d said. He was still staring at the picture of his mother. “It was a tragic time for both families.”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t see any point in dragging up the past.”
“Maybe there isn’t, unless, of course, the past still affects the present, and might affect the future, as
Similar Books
